The Tattered Hearts of You and I
by TwistedTrident
Summary: Percy Jackson, a washed up novelist who can only write about the scars of his past. Annabeth Chase, a full-time NYU sophomore living a nightmare of her own. What do you get when two tattered hearts collide? Well, in this case, you get love. T/M for darker themes


**Hello! :) This is just a new story idea I've been working on, and I'm not entirely sure about it. If you could please leave your comments and thoughts on it, it would be much appreciated.**

 **Thanks,**

 **TwistedTrident**

 **~Happy Reading!**

* * *

 **Percy's Journal Entry 1**

There are two types of people: drunks and survivors of drunks. I'd like to say I'm solely the latter, but if I am honest with myself—as my therapist instructs me to be— I fit somewhere in the middle. While I am by no means a lush, by no means have addiction in my veins, I do indulge in alcohol's sweet poison—sometimes heavily, sometimes in moderation, and sometimes so much that I lose large fractions of my life to nothingness. However, before you hurl upon me your judgements, I must admit that it is merely all I know, all I've ever witnessed growing up. It was the only constant in my youth, my childhood memories, and now it is the only constant in my life and the only way to escape the horrors within it.

For years, I have borne witness to my step-father's drinking, watched as he embraced oblivion, ensnared himself in the allure of a wicked toxin. It ravaged his mind and devoured his body, yet he would still consume in excess; and just when it seemed he'd misstepped in his dance with Death, he hobbled back from the brink, if only to spite me.

Though it curdles my stomach to admit, I am on a similar path. I am disgusted with myself, ashamed that we share any similarity, even if it is merely in vices; but I am losing the battle to my demons and I must purge myself of them.

I am a hollow husk of a man, an empty shell of a person I believed I would never become, but for now, I am surviving. And as they say, that's half the battle.

Even now, years after, I am still plagued by the memories, haunted by the ghosts of my past, for they are not foes that can be battled with brute and brawn but with a force far stronger and much harder to hone. Even so, I will dredge them up from the cesspool in which they dwell in hopes that you will understand me as I hope to understand you.

* * *

The raven-haired man flipped through the yellowing, frayed pages of his notebook, rifling through years of heartache, stories best left deeply buried. Yet he couldn't let them go, for they shaped in him in ways that could not be undone. The composition book was worn, had seen some better days, and had no page left unwritten. It bore the weight of hundreds of memories, none of them necessarily pleasant. The man knew it best belonged in the fireplace, set ablaze in the embers; maybe then the nightmares would be reduced to ash along with it. Though deep down, he knew that was only wishful thinking.

Behind him, the clock chimed the hour. Five melodious dings.

He arose from his armchair, tossed the notebook not in the fire as he so wanted but the coffee table before him, and stood before the window, just frosting with the coming winter. It took up the whole wall, exposing the labyrinthine city that gleamed below and, right on time as always, the golden-haired beauty that wove through it. Arms laden with textbooks, scarf flapping wildly in the icy wind, she raced across the street and ducked into the coffee shop across from the man's building.

Though if asked he'd deny it, he watched her often. Often enough to know she moved like clockwork, her life planned down to the minute. Every morning, she awoke at the most ungodly of hours, when even the sun was still slumbering, and whiled away the time in the nearest coffee house, perusing through the pages of an enormous volume on historical architecture. From there, she attended classes at NYU and, afterward, worked behind the counter of Carpe Librum, a bookstore just on the corner. He watched her enough to know she had two little ones, though he could never discern whether they were her children or merely relatives, for they appeared too old and she too young. However, the man supposed it could be a possibility. He watched her enough to know that there was something about her that drew him in, something that allured him. And he watched her enough to know that it was single-handedly the creepiest thing he'd ever done. But he couldn't stop. He watched, he watched, he watched. Watched but never spoken to.

Until today.

Behind him, footsteps crept down the hall, and the smell of brewing coffee scented the air.

With one last glance at the coffee shop, he padded into the kitchen where his cousin was already scarfing down food as though a last meal.

"Morning, Percy," Thalia Grace said through of mouthful of Frosted Flakes, the words garbled and sounding more like "mornig, Ercy."

Percy slid into the seat across from Thalia where a steaming cup of brew was already waiting for him and looked expectantly at his cousin, for he knew what would come out of her mouth next. It was the same question every day, the same simple question strung together with the same simple words, but they held immeasurable meaning to Percy. He'd come to rely on it more than he'd ever expected and more than he'd ever willingly admit.

"So, Percy, one impossible thing today. What is it?" Thalia asked, eyes imploring, begging, for something besides a bashful smile and another noncommittal gesture. And this time, a smirk tugging on his lips, Percy could oblige her.

"I'm going to talk to the girl, the wise one." Percy said, his face and eyes alight with a joy the world had not often seen from him. "Nothing serious, just talking, but it's something." Something big, something "impossible" or seemingly so, something that made him feel alive, human.

Percy fought to suppress a chuckle at the astonished look on Thalia's face. Her eyes were wide as saucers, and her mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for breath. She was visibly struggling for words, a sight he'd rarely seen from Thalia, and Percy waited patiently for her to find them, amusement leaking from his very pores.

"That's, Percy, that's big. Hell, that's huge for you, but… Are you sure that's a good idea?"

His brows knit.

"Why wouldn't it be?"

Thalia pursed her lips, and Percy could see the hesitation written across her face. A contemplative expression twisting her features, Percy knew she was weighing her words, chewing her thoughts, for fear of battering his confidence, slandering what had become of such profound importance to him. After several seconds of deafening silence, she spoke.

"Because you've built her up in your mind as some saving grace, someone transcendent of every other person out there. I understand how important this is to you, believe me, I do, but you've been doing much better lately. I'm just worried meeting her will dig up things best left buried."

He understood where she was coming from, understood her concerns better than she knew, for the very same thorns had threatened to shred the vision he'd created. These concerns ran rampant in his mind, suffocating the hope fire inside him until it was little more than flickering embers, and yet he still tended them, fought to keep them burning however faint and fireless they were. He had to speak with her, just once in his life—a life that, without her, he would have never had. The least he could do was let her know of his gratitude.

"I know, Thals. It's just something I have to do."

Tension knotted her shoulders, he noticed, and her eyes swam with worry, yet a smile, he knew was only for his sake, tugged at her lips.

"Okay."

* * *

He knew from the moment he'd left his apartment that he'd made a grave mistake, for he could already feel them clawing to the surface, latching onto his mind with hooked talons and shedding the peace he'd felt into bloody ribbons. Nightmares flashed before his eyes, segments of memories there one second and gone the next, like a ghastly montage baring his soul and reopening old wounds. He could almost feel the jagged scar tissue of his mind splitting at the seams, unleashing the demons it fought so feverishly to contain. Percy fought to tamp them down, to tame them as they had tamed him. They wouldn't ruin this for him; he wouldn't let them, not this time.

There she was, tucked in the far corner of the shop, a cozy little nook that she sought every time. Textbooks and papers were scattered over the table, stacked nearly so high as to cache her from view.

A shock went through Percy, a jolt of excitement and fear so potent he was perspiring even in the frigid winter air. His breath fogged the glass as he peered through the window, stood so near to the girl who had saved his life that fateful day.

Before he could dissuade himself from doing so, he was opening the door and marching toward her, purpose in his stride. Percy stood beside her table, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets to conceal his trembling fingers.

Grey eyes drew up to his, a clash of grey and green that opened a vacuum in his chest and wrung his lungs of air. Her blond hair, bound in a high ponytail, cascaded over her shoulder, tendrils of silky, princess curls. She was breathtaking, a revelation, more glorious than he'd envisioned, and there she sat before him, the keeper of his clock, the Fate that had held his thread, the savior of his life. She deserved to know, deserved to know more than anyone deserved to know anything, for she'd branded him that day. Branded him not with scars and bruises, of which he already had many, but with kindness, a concept so foreign to him it might as well have been written in Greek.

"Can I help you with something?" The girl asked, eyebrows quirked. Her eyes assessed him, roved over his body clinical and calculated, as though she were reading a blueprint, learning his weaknesses, exposing his truths, the chinks in his armor.

His throat grew dry, and his tongue felt like a lump of cotton in his mouth as he fought to shape the words he'd so carefully crafted, scripted for this very moment. Yet, despite his meticulousness, his countless practice on the walk over, the words jumbled in his mind, tripping over themselves in their haste to escape him. They blurred in his memory as though doused in water, their ink smearing in his mind, smudging his pride and the confidence he'd at first exuded. And, in their place, _they_ surfaced once again: the shadows of phantom pain that dances across his skin; he screams that rang in his ears, froze the marrow in his bones; and the voice that grated in his ears like nails on a chalkboard.

Percy shut his mouth, shut down; he stopped fumbling for words. Stopped trying. After all, what was there for him to say? How could he, a stranger to her, for time surely erased him from her mind, possibly express his gratitude? They'd been children then, minds malleable, and had encountered each other in such brevity that it was a wonder that even _he_ remembered; time surely would have washed her away if not for how profoundly she'd impacted his life. And his memory of her, though one of his less painful, brought up more pain than he could bear.

* * *

Percy burst through his apartment door, cheeks red with both exertion and lingering embarrassment, and tore through his quaint living quarters, frantically scouring the place for the object he so desired. One was sure to be here somewhere, he was certain. Months ago, he'd hidden it for moments like this, smuggled it under his coat and squirreled it away for when his pain grew intolerable. If only he could remember where he stored it… He threw open cupboards, the fridge, their contents clattering to the floor, yet he couldn't bring himself to care, to slow his feverish pace. Nowhere. Nothing. Head in his hands, Percy sagged against the wall and kneaded his pounding temples as if he could smooth away the ache.

Defeat was a bitter flavor, Percy knew, especially when oblivion was just within reach, beckoning for him to step into its reprieving embrace; if only he could find the gods damn…

Recollection flooded his mind, sweet relief dousing the fire in his veins, as he haphazardly upended the living room sofa and tore up the loose floorboard he'd long ago uprooted. There, tucked safely inside, was his dear old friend, his most treasured painkiller, his beloved yet despicable vice. As he grasped it by the neck, the amber liquid sloshing within, he warred with temptation. Should he, after the months he'd abstained? Was it worth squandering his progress? Yet the memories, the agony, bubbled to the surface once again, staining his soul, until that voice, _his_ voice, grated like white noise in his ears, whispered words best left unspoken. And yes, he decided, it was worth it, if only to cast _him_ away, the chaos that simmered inside him.

Percy twisted off the cap, reveled in the satisfying clink of the metal scraping glass, as he brought the bottle to his lips. The droplets were a hairsbreadth from his tongue when the bottle was wrenched from his hands and violently hurled to the floor in a shower of shattered glass and flood of amber. And there, in the middle of it all, Thalia stood, breathing ragged from a deadly concoction of both anger and exertion from the sheer savagery with which she'd thrown the bottle. Fear was written plainly across her face, her icy blue eyes electric with the force of her anger, and Percy couldn't help but think that her entire body practically crackled with electricity, primed like lightning about to strike soft soil.

"What the fuck happened?"

He stared back at her with silenced lips, for if he opened his mouth, he was sure he would scream.

Thalia shook her head, a faraway look in her eyes, melancholy permeating from her very pores, and Percy's stomach knotted painfully. She'd done so much for him, gave up huge fractions of her life, comforted, encouraged, all for him. And this is how he repaid her kindness. Shame swelled in his chest.

"I don't know what to do anymore. You're caught in a vicious cycle. It's like…you take a step forward, but then take two steps back. We can't keep going on like this."

His throat too tight to speak, Percy just nodded and hoped she could see the regret in his eyes, the mortification of having failed her, spat in the face of her kindness. He hated himself then, more than he ever had, as he felt the vile feeling hook its talons into his heart and twist their serrated edges deeper and deeper into his soul. No longer could he stand there looking at her, at the sorrowful and careful way she regarded him, as though he was a glass sculpture dangling precariously on the edge. Percy could detect the gruffness of clogged emotion, the catch in his voice, as he said, "I'm going for a walk."

* * *

It must have been fate, Percy was sure of it. Misery loves company, as he well knew, and there, company stumbled upon him. Even so, he fervently wished it was someone else, anyone else, because he couldn't stand it, couldn't bear even the slightest thought of it. Yet, there it was before him—the most depraved and vile truth he'd ever had the displeasure of knowing. While his nightmare ended, hers was just beginning.

Percy watched in horror as the moonlight silvered the man's cocked fist, glinted off the ring circling his finger. Flinched at the crack of fist on flesh. The yelp of pain that echoed through the alley and into the night. His feet couldn't leave the pavement fast enough, eating up the distance between them, but he was too slow and they too far. He heard the murmured apologies, the promises that it would never happen again. A weight settled into his gut as he watched the two of them walk off hand-in-hand, a shock of blond hair trailing off into the night.

* * *

The first thing he did upon his return home was pick up the cap, for he was drawn to it as though tethered to him. And with it surfaced a memory, one he'd held close to his heart.

 _Percy was running, breaths labored, hands clammy, heart thundering in his chest. Black spots danced before his vision, and he begged inwardly that his consciousness would not abandon him, not now._

 _But it did._

 _The next think he knew, he was opening his eyes, blinking away the blackness that drew him in, and was met with a pair of inquisitive, gray eyes blinking down at him. A girl, about his age, seven at the most, hovered over him. She nervously tugged at the bill of her Yankees cap before, looking into his eyes once again, tugged the cap from her head._

 _"_ _My mom gave it to me before… It makes you invisible, that's what she told me." She ran her fingers gingerly over the bill. Her eyes pored over Percy's face, at the blood that crusted his nose and the scrapes that stung his cheeks, and then past him, towards the thundering footfalls and slurred curses of his step-father that sent the birds into flight."Maybe you need it more than I do," she whispered, placing the hat atop his head, and then she was gone._

 _With deft fingers, fast as he could, he tucked the hat into his waistband and covered it with his t-shirt so as to hide his one worldly possession from the man who thrived on taking them away._

He'd needed that then, clung to the hope of the hat's invisible properties, the power that would cache him from his tormentor. Percy had known that it had been the work of a child's fairytale, a conjuring of childlike wonder that held no shred of reality, and yet, the hat did possess a power, for even if it didn't make him invisible, it instead made Percy invincible. At least, he felt that way; it reinvigorated him, revitalized his hope, strengthened his beliefs that there was more than this, more than the abuse. That there were kind people inhabiting this Earth, people who healed wounds instead of wrought them; he only had to escape his hellhole to see that.

There was a time when he'd needed that hat, had sapped its strength and siphoned it into himself, but that was long ago, a lifetime, it seemed.

Eyes staring vacantly in the distance, still caressing the cap as though it might crumble to dust if held too tightly, Percy whispered to the open air.

"Maybe you need it more than I do, Wise Girl."

* * *

 **Just a little side note: in future chapters, there won't be quite so many line breaks, I promise. For the sake of this particular chapter, it just worked out a little bit better to do it that way.**

 **Also please give me feedback! Constructive criticism helps me immensely! I personally have no experience with such topics, so if there is an inaccuracy, I do apologize in advance.**

 **Thank you :),**

 **TwistedTrident**


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